Twilight
by Shini no Miko
Summary: Trowa rediscovers a broken Quatre.


  
  
Title: Twilight  
Author: Carlea  
Rating: R, for mention of abuse, general tone... Maybe only PG-13  
Pairings: 3+4, impied OCx4.  
Notes: This was originally an 01+02 fic, but it was so ambiguous that I decided to change it. So I like martyr-Quatre. So sue me. Actually, please don't. I have nothing you want, exept maybe some fansubs... In any case, most of my Gundam fics are just this sort of thing... Ambigous, weird, disjointed, shonen-ai vingettes.  
  
  


**Twilight**  


  
  
  
I wake the moment he forces the lock. He comes in, and spends a long time taking off his shoes. I lay in bed, listening to his slightly erratic breathing.  
It sounds like he is crying.  
I listen to him as he creeps almost soundlessly up the stairs. He quietly rolls open the bathroom door halfway, and slips inside. Maybe he thinks that I have lost my edge, and cannot hear every single move he makes. But I can even hear him flicking the lightswitch.  
I get out of bed, utterly noiseless, and go to stand in the bathroom doorway. The bright fluorescent light accosts my eyes, but it is no matter. Within a few seconds, I am fully adjusted.  
He is standing in front of the sink, rummaging through the mirror-front cabinet above the sink. His back is to me, thankfully. He is wearing a black dress with thin straps that skims the tops of his thighs, and black fishnet tights. He pulls out a bottle of aspirin and tries to open it with shaky hands. I don't move to help him. He still doesn't know I'm awake. I can't see his face reflected in the mirror; his head is bowed now.  
He finally opens the bottle and spills half the contents of the bottle into his waiting palm. He picks out four tablets and funells the rest of them back into the bottle. He puts the pills in his mouth carefully and turns on the tap. He fills his cupped hand with water from the faucet. His hand is shaking so badly that most of the water slides over his fingers and back into the sink. Some of it trickles down his pale arm, but he does, in the end, get enough water past his lips to down the tablets.  
He replaces the bottle of white pills, and closes the cabinet door. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand.   
When he turns around, his eyes widen, and so do mine. He had not expected to see me leaning in the doorway, watching him, and is understandibly surprised. But my shock is ultimately worse... The space around his left eye is one massive, bruise, spreading around his eyes and past, across to his cheekbone, up his temple.  
I'm - sorry, he whispers hesitantly, touching the side of his neck self consciously with those delicate, trembling hands. He lowers his eyes, staring at some spot somewhere between my feet and his. His skin is so much paler than I remember, he is so much thinner... I just needed - some aspirin and I - didn't have anywhere else - to go...  
I haven't seen him in over three years, and yet, strangely, it warms me to know that thought of me.   
It's fine, I hear myself saying. Do you want to lie down?  
After a long pause, he nods. I bring him a pair of my pajamas, and let him change in privacy. He pads into my room a few minutes later, carrying his other, folded clothes. My nightclothes hang off him, and brush past his fingertips. I guess, unlike the rest of us, he has not gotten any taller.  
I close the space between us and enfold him in a warm embrace, and guide him towards the bed. Once he is settled on one side, I slide in on the other.   
He doesn't seem to mind when I press close to his back and whisper in his ear, ghosting my fingers along the uncorrupted side of his face. Who did this to you? I ask.  
He hesitates, stutters, his voice taut. Just a guy I've been seeing.  
A boyfriend? My voice is neutral. There is nothing he could surmise from my tone. That has always been a skill of mine.  
A flush lights up his cheeks, and he tries shyly to get away from me.  
I lay a hand on his shoulder. Don't see him anymore.  
I know, he murmurs. I... I can't... He breaks down, now. To his credit, he makes no noise as hot tears slide out of his tightly shut eyes.  
I stroke his hair gently. His hair is oily, and he smells of sweat, and a little bit of sex. I have the feeling that he may not have been home in a few days... He obviously hasn't been taking care of himself. I brush some strands of hair out of his face, tucking the locks behind his ear.  
It's fine, I say, and place a kiss on the highest point of his fine cheekbone. Just go to sleep, Quatre. I'll wake you in the morning.


End file.
